


A Difference in Morality

by Skalidra



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Universe, Gladiators, M/M, Mirror Universe, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9377672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Shiro was the captain of the very first mission out to Kerberos, a science expedition that's doubling as a live training exercise for a promising year of cadets from the Garrison. When they're taken by the Galra, divided up to work as slaves or fight in the arena, he lets others be sacrificed first, as he watches and picks out exactly what weakness the gladiator there has. After all, he has to make a memorable first impression.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, day 6! (Just two more after this, then we're back to regularly scheduled programming.) Today's prompts were 'Mirror Universe/Revenge', and I've been on a bit of a Mirror!verse (as in Star Trek) kick lately so I transplanted Voltron into it. Sorta. In this world, humans are nasty, military-heavy creatures. The Garrison is a military academy, and the Kerberos mission was more than just one pilot and a couple scientists. (Consequently, everyone is a lot less friendly than they are in canon.) Enjoy!

Shiro watches several of the others get thrown out into the killing field first, staying quiet and watching how the Galra gladiator moves as it decimates the collection of sacrifices put out before it. It’s a slaughter, plainly enough. This isn’t meant to be a real fight, as far as he can tell.

His crew stands mostly firm, and since most of them are cadets who never should have been out remotely this far to begin with he counts that as a point in their favor. The month or so of captivity — a _month_ , to travel far enough that in the glimpses he gets out of windows he can’t recognize a single constellation — seems to have taken its toll; they’re quieter now, not the rambunctious group of fresh meat that had needed a firm hand and a lesson in the subtleties of rank aboard an actual ship.

He wonders what the rest of them might have told the Galra in their interrogations, but as he has before, decides it doesn’t matter. The Druids (he’s made a point to observe and remember every bit of information he can about these aliens) seemed to pull information straight from his mind, so really the better question is what information they got from him, as well as their two scientists Matt and Sam. If anyone has sensitive information, it’s them. The cadets are less of a security risk.

Besides, he doubts it will matter all that much. The chances of returning to Earth are low enough to be almost nonexistent, which means that he’s better off figuring out exactly how this society functions and clawing out some sort of position for himself. Himself, and whoever he chooses to protect. (If that’s viable.)

There’s a sick, wet _crunch_ as the cadet currently out in the ring takes that purple ball of energy directly to the chest.

Keith — volatile, but loyal enough for Shiro’s purposes and a threat he’d rather have close to hand — shifts beside him, glancing up with bright eyes. “I can take him,” Keith says, below his breath. “I’m the best fighter on the ship, you know that.”

He watches a guard — most of them robot drones, he’s learned — drag the body across the dirt ground, over to the pile of the others that have already died. A handful, and a couple of them are aliens. Some of his crew have vanished, he suspects the Druids have something to do with that, but he still has enough behind him. He can stand to let a few more die, until he's confirmed his working theory of a weakness. It's not as if all of his crew was dragged out here; there are more back in the cells.

"Let them thin the herd a little more," he orders, keeping his voice just as quiet as Keith's. "I'm working on a theory."

Keith fidgets next to him, but doesn't draw any attention as the guards single out another cadet and pull them out into the arena. She gets a sword, and about ten seconds where she's dragged to the center of the arena (and the Galra gladiator waits with a vicious grin). Then the guards withdraw, and the match starts.

Shiro watches the gladiator, ignoring the cadet entirely as he follows the swing of that purple weapon. _One_ , he mouths, as it swings out. _Two;_ Keith is watching him. _Three,_ and it withdraws back to the handle. A pause, a charge. He can hear the sound as the orb is thrown out again, and the much louder sound as it returns. He gives a tiny smirk, and glances down to Keith, raising an eyebrow.

"See it?" Keith looks back at the fight, eyes narrowed, and Shiro steps a fraction closer and leans down to speak in his ear. "There's a loud sound when the orb goes back to the base of the weapon; listen for it. It can go three times before it needs to charge again. That's the point to strike."

"I see it," Keith confirms, with a small, savage grin. "Do you want me to go next? I can catch the attention of one of the guards, I'm sure."

He gives a minute shake of his head, straightening again. "I'll do it. It's my command, after all; I should set an example."

Keith snorts. "To who? The rest of the crew? We're not in a great position, Shiro. Sir."

"Not to them. To the aliens, the ones in charge here." He crosses his arms, idly watching the fight play out; this cadet is doing moderately better than her predecessor. "If it's possible to get a better position here, it'll be through them."

"You'll be careful, won't you?" Keith sounds almost concerned, which just won't do. Not at this point. Keith may be his chosen boy among the cadets, and reasonably loyal enough to allow at his back, but that doesn't make them anything more than useful allies.

Keith is… fun; he'll admit that much. Passionate. Maybe he'd have offered Keith a position next to him if this hadn't happened, when he graduated.

"Are you doubting me?" he asks. "I wouldn't risk my neck if I wasn't sure, Keith."

"Of course," is the immediate backtrack. "I know that, sir. I didn't mean to imply anything else."

He can't quite risk reaching over and tipping Keith's chin up, like he wants to, so he settles for letting a small smirk curl his lips. "You can drop the sirs, Keith, just remember who's in charge. I don't think rank is going to matter all that much here." He leans a fraction over and drops his voice to a breath as he adds, "Save it for whenever I have the next chance to take you to a bed, hm?"

He can just barely hear Keith's breath catch, and it's no real wonder. Months trapped in the cells of an alien spacecraft; the most he's been able to do is get blowjobs from Keith. He doesn't intend on giving much of anything with an audience watching, and he didn't want to make himself or Keith vulnerable enough to do more. Or give the Galra any more information about what humans get up to in their spare time; however much information he can keep hidden, the better.

He shifts away from Keith before there's an answer, slipping towards the front of the group in slow, unobtrusive movements. Keith doesn't follow him. When the next cadet falls he's maneuvered himself up close to the head of the group, and the other cadets around him are shifting to the side. He's not positive whether it's respect for him or fear he'll be chosen next, and honestly he doesn't care. He doubts that an enslaved crew made up of only mostly-trained cadets is going to be all that helpful in a place like this.

Given the single gladiator in the ring, and how he's watched the guards behave, this society seems much more based around competition than alliance. Not all that different from Earth's military, really. Shiro's had to prove that he's better than anyone else around him a dozen times, for every single new rank or consideration.

He didn't have a sponsor at the Academy, not like the lucky few who drew the immediate attention of captains or admirals. Or teachers. He fought for every _inch_ of what he's earned; he's used to having to prove himself to the people watching.

(What's so different here?)

The guards move to tug forward one of the other cadets, a tall, lean boy with short brown hair (Lance; decent pilot, needs to be taught restraint if he's going to survive), and Shiro steps forward and deliberately between them.

There's a brief pause, and then a mechanical, "Step aside, slave."

He raises an eyebrow, holds his ground. "I'm volunteering; is that a problem?"

Some kind of communication happens between the two robotic guards, and then his arm is roughly taken and he's shoved forward, up the stairs and out onto the dirt of the arena. The sword pressed into his hands is a slightly awkward thing, but he feeds his hand into the loop of it and makes sure he has a steady grip as the guards push him towards the center of the arena. There are a few other blades discarded on the ground, but it's better if he never loses the one he's started with.

The guards retreat, and he slides one foot back to balance his stance (Garrison taught unarmed combat but it didn't have a class in _swords_ ). Only a moment later the Galra gladiator is moving, and he lets the rest of the arena fade away as he focuses. Make this fast. Make it dominant.

The first swing of the orb is easy enough, and he moves forward in his dodge, closing the distance a bit at a time. The sound of the mace-like weapon is easy enough to cue off of now that he's recognized the trigger, and the secondary dodge as the orb blasts its way back is trickier, but manageable. He doesn't get quite close enough during the first round, but the Galra doesn't seem to have figured out what he's doing either.

One, two, _three_ , and he sprints in, ducking underneath the return of the orb and coming face to face with the Galra at the same moment the purple orb docks onto its base. The gladiator reels backwards, mouth curling into a snarl, but he's already striking upwards, twisting his waist and hips to put as much power behind the slash of his sword as possible.

The blood that sprays from the diagonal slice — spanning nearly from the Galra's hip to opposite shoulder — is a dark purple, and he gets a roar of pain for his effort. Before the gladiator can recover from his stumble, Shiro strikes again, sharper this time, higher. The flinch isn't enough of a retreat, and the Galra's throat gives beneath his blade.

There's a shocking _silence_ as the Galra topples backwards, crashing to the dirt with a massive thud. Shiro exhales and steps forward, refusing to take chances as he plants a foot on the Galra's wrist and drives his blade down into the already ruined throat. There's the _crunch_ he was looking for as the blade impacts bone, and the Galra goes utterly still beneath him in the span of a moment.

He wrenches the blade out again (there's no way he's going weaponless in this place if he can help it), and lifts his head to look up towards that tall, sheer, stone podium. He can only barely make out the figures on top from down here, but they must be the important ones. He glances to either side to make sure that guards aren't on their way to either drag him out or kill him (they aren't), and then simply waits.

It only takes a moment for the crowd to burst into noise. Roars, cheers, screaming, and he's honestly not sure if the reception is good or bad but he's sure of one thing; he's made his impression. He's proven that he's smart and ruthless, and that should be enough to get him some respect. If this culture works like he thinks it does.

Guards approach, and at a sharp order he discards his sword, letting them lead him back out of the arena and to the handful of other slaves still waiting down at the side. Other guards push them to the side, up against a wall as he's guided past their wide eyes. Keith gives him a crooked grin as he passes, and he shoots a smirk over his shoulder in response, before the guards take him down past a sliding door and back into the purple-and-grey of their corridors.

Two actual Galra soldiers take over from there, replacing the robotic ones, and their grips are harder.

"Emperor Zarkon demands your presence," one says, with a sneer.

He smiles back. "Gladly."


End file.
